


For Every Man, Friendship

by KChan88



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 03:13:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8311858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: Feuilly meets Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac for the first time, complete with newspapers, spilled coffee, and politics. 
Also known as my small offering for both Feuilly week and à force d’amitié on Tumblr!





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have tried to understand more about the canon era situation in Poland, so if I'm a bit wrong about any of it, apologies! But it is really interesting!

**Autumn. 1826.**

It’s cool and sunny outside as September fades into October, summer giving a last few dying breaths before giving up to autumn, Feuilly’s favorite season. He finds a shady bench near the Pont au Change, putting his shoulder bag down and laying his book on Henri de Saint-Simon’s writings down on top of it, along with his newspaper. He rolls up his sleeves, stretching out his cramping fingers and sighing, feeling content.

He looks around, smiling as Parisians stroll across the bridge, the sunlight sparkling off the Seine, a cool breeze blowing through his hair as he removes his cap for a moment. As part of his day to day as it is, Feuilly sometimes forgets how much he loves Paris. He’d come here as barely more than another gamin, but he’d made a home. He picks up the newspaper, eyes scanning the words; he’s started teaching himself Polish so he might make even clearer sense of the situation there. He’d come across information about the partitioning in some of his other reading, and he’d been interested ever since. That Russia or Prussia or Austria or other imperialist-minded countries could cut up a country and take its independence from them made Feuilly angry.

Every man should have a nation.

France’s own Napoleon took advantage of the situation too, promising independence and giving none, just giving Feuilly another reason to despise the man.

The 1820s brought with it more Russian oppression in Poland and therefore more secret societies, and Feuilly was just getting to the second page and some of their exploits when he hears voices coming closer.

“Combeferre you are forever playing devil’s advocate with me,” Feuilly hears one of the young men say from somewhere behind him. “Can’t you just admit I’m right?”

“Certainly not,” one of the others answers, dry, but clearly amused, and Feuilly’s hears the smile pricking at his lips even if he doesn’t see his face. “I’m trying to expand your mind, Courfeyrac. Prime you up for arguing your cases, which I imagine you’ll be doing a lot of as a lawyer.”

“Enjolras,” the one called Courfeyrac whines. “Tell Combeferre I’m right.”

“Oh you know better than to think I’ll get involved,” Enjolras answers, a soft chuckle in his voice. “You two will have to work it out for yourselves.”

“Oh fine then,” Courfeyrac says, but he’s biting back laughter.

“Courfeyrac,” the one Feuilly thinks is Combeferre says.

“Hear now Combeferre let me rest a bit before another round, we’ve still got a bit of a walk back to Enjolras’ rooms.”

“No, Courfeyrac…”

“What?” Courfeyrac protests.

“There’s a…”

But Combeferre doesn’t have a chance to answer before Courfeyrac trips over a rather large dip in the road he hadn’t seen in his enthusiasm, and all three young men come into view as Courfeyrac hits the ground, the cup of liquid in his hand going flying and splattering against Feuilly’s newspaper.

“Well,” Courfeyrac grumbles from the ground. “That was a bit beneath my dignity. Combeferre you’re a medical student, am I bleeding?”

“Not a drop my friend,” Combeferre answers, looking apologetically at Feuilly beneath his spectacles, brushing a stray light brown hair from his eyes.

“I’m afraid you’ve also spilled your coffee on this man’s paper,” Enjolras says, and Feuilly sees now the voice belongs to a very tall man with longish blond hair.

“Oh, my apologies my good man,” Courfeyrac says, getting up from the ground with a hand from Enjolras, and Feuilly sees he has curly brown hair fashionably styled and one of the brightest smiles he’s ever seen, which reaches his green eyes even now. “I fear I let my good-natured argument with my friends here get in the way of watching where I was going. I could replace your paper if…oh,” he continues, seeing it’s not written in French. “That is….what is that language?”

“Polish,” Feuilly says, feeling sheepish. “I uh. I like to keep up with the goings on there. But it’s all right, it mostly just got on the front page, and I’ve already read that.”

“Still though I’m quite sorry,” Courfeyrac says. He puts out his hand for Feuilly to shake. “I’m Marcel Courfeyrac. These are my friends René Enjolras and Auguste Combeferre.”

“Oh,” Feuilly says, taken aback at the friendliness but he puts his hand out anyway, finding himself smiling. “I’m Henri Feuilly.”

“Not many young men about Paris reading Polish newspapers,” Enjolras remarks, and Feuilly notices that though there’s a somber quality to his voice, his blue eyes are alight with an intensity Feuilly feels as if he knows. “I’d like to know more about the situation there myself, I’ve heard a bit about it from our friend Prouvaire. He’s been reading…” Enjolras pauses, the words escaping him. “Oh, Combeferre what’s the name of that Polish poet Prouvaire’s been reading? I can’t recall.”

“Adam Bernard Mickiewicz I believe is his name,” Combeferre adds. He smiles at Feuilly. “Our friends Bahorel and Prouvaire have much to say about the Romantic movements’ place in politics and nationalism.”

“Excellent,” Feuilly says, intrigued by these three young men, their eagerness overcoming bits of his usual guarded nature, though he’s not entirely sure what to say.

“Ah and you’re reading Henri de Saint-Simon too I see,” Courfeyrac says, eyeing the book. “You might like to talk to Enjolras about that, we’ve discussed him because of his focus on…”

“The working man,” both Enjolras and Feuilly say at once, completing Courfeyrac’s sentence simultaneously. They both smile, and Feuilly sees the shyness he feels reflected in Enjolras’ expression, but he’s nonetheless charming for it.

“I’m a fan-maker myself,” Feuilly says, holding out one of his hands. “Hence all the paint on my fingers. I…are you students?”

“We are,” Courfeyrac says, then he lowers his voice conspiratorially. “But we have just started a group, you see. A society of sorts, in its fledgling stages, and we’ve been looking for more working members, you see.”

“We’d like all sorts in our society,” Enjolras says, lowering his voice as well. “And working men have put a great deal of effort into the Republican movement. We’d be pleased to have you come to a meeting. If you’d like to, of course.”

“It’s quite the meeting of the minds,” Combeferre says, encouraging. “Which I’m sure you could tell by the uh…debate that led to Courfeyrac spilling his coffee on you.”

“Oh,” Courfeyrac says, flicking Combeferre in the arm.

Feuilly laughs at their antics, eyes flickering over toward Enjolras, who smiles warmly at his pair of friends. Feuilly feels unsure still, but something pushes him forward, telling him this is a moment that matters, even if he doesn’t know why yet.

“Well it seems a bit fortuitous you spilled your coffee on me,” Feuilly says. “I am not sure if I can come just yet, but where do you meet?”

“Sometimes at the Café Musain but most often at the Corinthe on the Rue de la Chanverie,” Enjolras answers. “We’re there often informally, but the next formal gathering is three nights from now, at 8 in the evening.”

“Thank you,” Feuilly says, nodding. “I will definitely consider coming by.”

“Excellent,” Courfeyrac says. “Apologies again for your newspaper.”

“No harm done,” Feuilly says, waving his hand.

“Well we won’t disturb your reading anymore,” Enjolras says. “But if you do come by I hope you won’t mind discussing the Polish situation with me. And possibly the Saint-Simon.”

“Certainly,” Feuilly says, shaking each of their hands again.

They wave at him and Feuilly watches them go, settling back onto the bench with his book, but he finds himself distracted by thoughts of the three young men. He has casual friends among other men he works with and he knows a few people in his building, but he is not part of a group like they’d mentioned, though until now it hadn’t quite occurred to him. But the idea cements in his brain and he cannot let it go.

Three nights later, he _does_ show up to the Corinthe.

 


End file.
